First Date
by CheckAgain
Summary: "Well, you see… I was wondering if, perhaps, you'd like to go on a sort of … date, if you will, old sport." Nick/Jay.
1. Chapter 1

Gatsby was unusually nervous that evening as they sat around a small patio table, wine glasses glittering in the setting sun.

He spoke with a cheerful franticness, eager to answer any of Nick's inquiries to the point of stepping on his final syllables (which, of course, he frantically apologized for, being a man of manners). His foot tapped endlessly against the floor to some off-kilter time signature inaudible to Nick, fingers drumming along the arm rest to something even more off-beat but significantly quicker. All the while to this erratic tempo was the chattering of soaked ice, and Nick didn't even need to glance over to know his glass was shaking in his hands.

Nick was an interpreter of literature, not music, and so could not discern a method to this madness, but only madness to this method.

Gatsby was biting his lower lip when Nick finally decided to speak up, cutting off the man's tale of some excavation in the Netherlands. "Jay—" He immediately had his attention, surprised and nervous, and the song ended. There was a pause before he spoke, before the familiar, controlled smile stretched his face.

"Yes, old sport?" 

"Is something bothering you?" He titled his head, eyes concerned and slightly amused. Gatsby always amused him.

"Hm?" The taping resumed and he stared at his shoes. "No, not at all, old sport. What prompted the question?"

It took all his willpower not to simply raise an eyebrow as a response. "You're fidgeting like it's going out of fashion, and you're speaking as if you have somewhere you need to be." The thought had only just occurred to him. "Do you? I don't mean to keep you here if you have prior obligations."

"No!" Gatsby all but lunged from his chair, sitting up sharply and gripping the arm rests. Noting Nick's surprised look, he settled back, loosening his tight hold. A faint blush tinted his cheeks. "Excuse me, old sport, for the outburst." He was putting on an obvious effort now to control his speech, each word enunciated fully. He smiled the smile that stole Nick's breath and fixed his cuffs. "There's nowhere else I have to be, nor would rather be, than here with you."

He held Nick's gaze for a few moments, entrancing him with that dazzling smile before averting his gaze. Nick was very confused by this point, and slightly flustered. Why had that look seemed almost... intimate? And nowhere he'd rather be than with him...? Surely that was just a pleasantry? He would most like to be with Daisy. The sentence hadn't meant a thing.

"I apologize for my behaviour, old sport," he continued with a sigh. He twisted the ring around his pinky, a nervous habit Nick had observed in him. "There is something bothering me. Well, perhaps not bothering, but certainly occupying my mind. You understand, don't you?"

Nick just stared at him. Gatsby cleared his throat into his fist, shifting in embarrassment. "O-Of course you don't, I haven't said anything yet, it's just—" He waved his hand vaguely, a nervous titter leaving him. "The heat. You understand, don't you, old sport? The heat, I mean." The ice cubes were chatting again.

Nick nodded. "The heat."

"It's very hot. Almost unbearably so."

"Unbearably."

Gatsby's eyes flickered in thought before he rearranged himself in his seat, scooting his chair closer and leaning forward. He clasped his hands together between his knees and looked at the floor. Nick leaned in a bit himself. The matter was clearly serious and only to be shared between them. He gave him the time he needed to speak.

Gatsby finally looked at him, only to blush and look away, much to Nick's confusion. The man was only flustered when it came to Daisy. Did he want him to invite her over again? Honestly, for a person so insistent on his asking for anything he wanted, he was terrible at making requests.

"I can invite her over again," he offered. "If you want."

Gatsby looked at Nick like he had grown a second head.

"What?"

"For dinner, I mean." He reclined back. "It's not an issue. I'm sure Daisy would be delighted."

Gatsby continued to stare at him in absolute confusion before it sunk in. "Oh." His brow furrowed and he held up his hands. "Oh! Oh, no. No, no, old sport, that wasn't what I was getting at at all. I'm sorry for being so vague."

"I see." The sun trembled above the horizon. The street always smelled of the beach. "What is it, then? It's clearly of great importance to you."

Gatsby nodded. He opened and closed his overcoat, fiddling, then shut his eyes and took a deep breath. The uncharacteristic hesitance made Nick nervous. When Gatsby looked back up at him, his eyes shone with shyness.

"Well, you see..." His voice was hushed and Nick strained to hear him. "I was wondering if, perhaps, you'd like to..." He paused and Nick urged him on. Breathing through his nose, he held his gaze. "Go on a sort of... _date_, if you will, old sport."

There was no word to describe the shock Nick was feeling.

Had he heard him correctly? A date—with _him? _Himself, not Daisy? It was unthinkable. Gatsby had expressed no interest in him before, his eyes fixated on the green light across the bay. Not to mention they were both men and this was taboo of the highest nature. Nick couldn't speak. He simply stared, blinking, and Gatsby suddenly laughed, loud and booming and fake.

"Do not look so stunned, old sport!" He scooted his chair back and seemed to curl in on himself. "It was... it was only a joke, you see." The ice chittered as he sipped his drink. Setting it back down, he smiled at him weakly. "I got you pretty good there, didn't I, old sport?"

But it was obvious it wasn't a joke and the silence stretched between them. A date. The mysterious Jay Gatsby had just asked him out on a date. He had earned millions for Daisy and now he was asking his middle-class neighbour out on a date. Nick didn't think he would ever understand the man.

That was what he liked about him.

A slow, unsure smile graced his face. "Really now?" He laughed lowly. "That's a shame, Mr. Gatsby. I would have very much liked to have gone on a date with you."

There was a teasing quality to his tone, a safe net for his bold sentence. If Gatsby truly had been joking, he would detect Nick's laugh and assume he was going along with the joke. If he hadn't, however, it was a subtle way of receiving his answer; an opportunity for Gatsby to change his mind without any ensuing awkwardness.

Nick could only pray he had been sincere.

Gatsby held his gaze, mouth moving wordlessly before a grin split his face, radiant with a joy Nick had never witnessed from him before. "You'd..." He laughed breathlessly, shaking his head in disbelief. "You'd really like to, Nick?"

His name sounded foreign on his tongue. After a moment's hesitation, he smiled. "I... I'd be happy to."

Gatsby nodded sharply, once, twice, and twisted his ring, giddy smile blooming against the muscles that twitched to restrain it. Nick had a hard time himself containing his smile, and they sat in mutual, excited silence. A servant dropped by to refill their glasses without notice. The sun had set.

Ten minutes passed when another servant suddenly appeared, whispering in Gatsby's ear. The briefest hint of dark anger flitted across his eyes before he nodded and waved the man away. "Well, you'll have to excuse me, old sport," he said, rising with a sad smile. "I've business to attend to."

Nick nodded, also rising. "I understand."

"How does..." Gatsby licked his lips. "Six pm tomorrow sound? Is that okay? Or are you busy? Just pick the time, old sport, and I'll—"

"Six is fine."

"Ah." Another sharp nodded and he murmured to himself, then smiled. "I'll pick you up, then. Don't go filling up too much on me, old sport." He winked playfully, bringing red to Nick's cheeks, and left with a short wave. "Until tomorrow, then."

As he ascended up the marble steps, Nick stood waving, watching his white suit disappear behind chestnut doors, paralyzed with happiness.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello! First and foremost, I would like to thank those who reviewed for their reviews, those who followed for their follows, and so on. It keeps me motivated to see people enjoying my stories. Secondly, I would like to thank customyellowdeuesy from tumblr for the idea/inspiration behind this story. Finally, enjoy the chapter, and please review!

* * *

It had not struck him until he was picking out his outfit for the evening just how ugly he was.

Perhaps ugly was too strong a word. Though not vain, Nick had to admit for the sake of truth that his face had a certain boyish charm to it, and that his frame, while tiny, was certainly not scrawny. Nothing objectionable about him, but nothing truly noteworthy either. He was plain, at least compared to Jay Gatsby.

But how could he possibly compare? The man was _gorgeous_, sculpted like an ancient Greek statue, smooth, white, and, discovered upon an accidental peek when he had been changing (thankfully, only his shirt), tightly defined ab-wise. Golden trestles clung over deep blue eyes in the heat like the setting sun upon the quivering horizon. And that smile—Heaven forgive him, that _smile_.

And here he was, plain old Nick Carraway, an hour spent gazing at his own unremarkable reflection.

He'd like to not think his self-esteem so poor, however, and blamed part of his slowness on his confusion over the whole affair. Nick had been sure—so very, very sure—that Daisy was the jewel of Gatsby's eye, the shining ray of hope he wished to stand under. But the steady click of half-past noon on the wall reminded him of their date's planned time (six o'clock, matched only in tri-syllabic beauty by his date's name) and his beliefs were once more shattered.

A man. He was going on a date with a man. With his neighbour whom he'd admired for months, whom he'd—whom he'd grown fond of, yes, more so, affectionate even, _infatuated with_, even. It wasn't love—he'd be childish to think so—but it was something, something beyond the tender curiosity he had felt with Jordan Baker, something undeniable, seemingly unattainable, and yet—

He had a date with Jay Gatsby.

The clock struck one and he went to try on his third outfit.

* * *

It had not struck him until he was picking out his outfit for the evening just how ugly he was.

Perhaps ugly was too strong a word. Though not vain, Gatsby had to admit for the sake of truth that his skin had a warm, healthy complexion about it, and that his frame, while broad-shouldered, was strong and fit. Nothing objectionable about him, but nothing truly noteworthy either. He was plain, at least compared to Nick Carraway.

But how could he possibly compare? The man was _gorgeous_, slim and fair-skinned, with dark locks to match an equally (at times) dark wit. His eyes—oh, his _eyes_—had this strange, haunting shade of blue that pierced right through him, and the way they crinkled like half-moons when he smiled, when he laughed—

And here he was, plain old Jay Gatsby, two hours spent gazing at his own unremarkable reflection.

Oh, but there was no time for self-pity! The date was in six hours and he had only decided on a bow tie. Servants ran about in a tizzy, grabbing this and that from closets and shelves, drawers and hangers, dogs at the heels of Gatsby's every demand. "This won't do!" he'd snapped, throwing a tie to the floor, "That one, and that one!" he'd demand, snapping his fingers at a dress shirt or suit, "Hurry up, hurry up! I haven't much time!" he'd growl, eyes narrowed dangerously, and the mutts would pick up their pace.

His conduct was incredibly rude, but everything had to be perfect down to the last detail for the date with his neighbour whom he'd noticed in this way but a month ago, whom he'd—whom he'd grown attached to, yes, more so, dependent on even, _enamoured with_, even. It was love—he'd be childish to think not—and it was something, something beyond the obsessive devotion he had felt with Daisy, something undeniable, seemingly unattainable, and yet—

"_I... I'd be happy to."_

The clock struck noon and he went to try on his seventh outfit.


	3. Chapter 3

Hello! Sorry for the wait. Busy with school and such. Thank you for all the lovely reviews!

**Daydream**: Ahh, I'm sorry you didn't enjoy the last chapter so much! Hopefully, this one will make up for it. :)

**Disney's Darling**: omg hi thank friend fohuen

**Miss Hanamura**: Thank you so much! You're a very kind person. I appreciate your continued support.

**24601**: I'm glad to provide. ^^

**The Skan Hans Skivate**: Thank you.

**fingers-falling-upwards**: Haha, thank you! I'm glad you found it as funny as I did lol

**MismatchedSocksandKnickers**: Not very confident, are they? Thanks!

**JayJay133**: As you wish my friend!

(Note I will likely just reply by message to reviews after this; I didn't reply in time and wanted to say my thanks.)

Enjoy, and please review if you do (or don't)!

* * *

Gatsby picked him at six o'clock on the dot. Nick had just fitted his tie and was surprised to see the man already when he opened the door. When Gatsby said six, he meant six. Not that Nick minded; punctuality was a neglected virtue, and Gatsby looked absolutely dashing in his best black vest and overcoat, white dress shirt peeking out just above his neck. His black shoes shined in the sunlight, and while he wore an equally dark bow tie, the real bow on top was his dazzling smile.

Nick felt embarrassingly under-dressed. A wooly grey overcoat rested upon his small frame, open to reveal a white dress shirt with a large collar, a black tie with two thin stripes of red to match. But in Gatsby's eyes, he must have looked divine, for the way they sparkled when Nick opened the door couldn't be put into words. Smiling at him, Nick let out a small chuckle.

"Six o'clock exactly."

"Ah, yes." He fidgeted with his collar, visibly embarrassed. "Are you not ready, old sport? I'm sorry—I just—"

Nick held up his hands. "I'm ready. It's nice you're here on time. Punctuality is an important thing."

Gatsby's face lit up once more, the man smiling a small, self-satisfied smile to himself before nodding.

"Shall we be going then, old sport?"

Gatsby led him out the door to the glimmering yellow car they had ridden in before. Of course, Gatsby had buffed it vigorously that morning, polishing it until it glimmered even in shade. Nick noted this without comment, wishing to save the man from further embarrassment. Gatsby put in an effort and Nick appreciated it. However, he often felt the man went too far, felt he had too much to prove.

He didn't need to prove anything to Nick. He was fine enough on his own.

In a kind display, Gatsby opened the passenger door for him, nearly making him blush; as if he were the woman in the relationship! He accepted his gesture with a gracious smile and took his seat. The door slammed beside him and Gatsby wound around to the driver's seat, sliding the key into the ignition as he slid Nick a contented smile.

"I hope you're hungry, old sport." The engine roared to life. "I've made reservations at the best Italian restaurant in New York; I know how you like Italian food."

Nick blinked. "How did you know that?"

"I've studied you, old sport." Realizing how that could come off, he sputtered, "I-I mean, you came over for dinner one night and seemed quite pleased with the spaghetti." They had pulled out of the small street and onto the open road, the car rounding corners in hasty jerks. He held up a finger suddenly, eyes twinkling. "I thought you might take particular pleasure in Italian food, and so I tested my theory.

"After having you over for a few different meals, I observed that you seemed to enjoy the noodles most of all the nights, and so had my chefs prepare it again, but with all the toppings and best ingredients this time. Oh, the look on your face! A man of fine culinary taste could be no less satisfied, and I knew then your preference."

Nick was stunned and it showed on his face. Gatsby's expression fell, replaced by embarrassment over his enthusiasm, his observational character. If Nick was the master of emotional observations, Gatsby ruled physical. He always noticed people's postures, the air they held about themselves, which topics would produce which expressions, what foods brought them joy and what fields gave them the brightest smiles, and quietly tucked them away in his information on people. He could deduce much from these observations, and as such found it astonishingly easy to create plans on how to win them over. Some would call it manipulative, but in his heart, he only wanted to please the ones he cared for.

Plus, the sense of control eased his anxiety over any potential failure in his pursuits.

But his embarrassment was misplaced, as Nick smiled a slow, surprised smile. "You went to all that effort to learn something so small about me?"

They drew to a stop sign and Gatsby's fingers drummed along the steering wheel. He turned his head to smile at him. "Your enjoyment isn't small to me, old sport."

The sentence left him speechless. They stared into each other's eyes for a long time, though in reality it was but a few seconds. Gatsby meant it, meant every word; he couldn't hide anything from his expressive eyes, and Nick suddenly had the urge to lean forward, to kiss him, the air was just right, intimate as dew in morning grass, intimate as the heat of summer, their summer—

The car pressed forward.

* * *

"So, old sport." He sauntered about, gesturing to the magnificent display with a grin. "Does it please the refined Mr. Carraway?"

'Pleased' wasn't the right word, but Nick was definitely flabbergasted. The restaurant was empty save a lone table with two cushioned chairs on opposite ends at its centre. Upon a slight inclination was a band of well-dressed people playing soft music, the sweet sigh of a violin and moody strokes of a piano being particularly notable sounds. Low-lit lamps hung around the room, giving it a warm, intimate atmosphere, and the smell of sauces and garlic bread wafted in through the tucked away kitchen.

"Jay..." Nick wandered in, eyeing the scene in astonishment. He turned back to Gatsby, who seemed quite pleased with his reaction. "You did all this? Rented an entire restaurant out just for us?"

Gatsby nodded, smiling. "Of course, old sport. We wouldn't want any interruptions or unbearable wait times, now would we? Besides—" He drew close to Nick, putting an arm around his shoulder and talking lowly into his ear— "the evening would be ruined by contemptuous looks."

He understood his meaning and nodded. Perhaps he had also paid off the chefs and performers to withhold their judgements. He felt a slight distaste at his buying off people's moral beliefs, but knew he should be more disgusted with those easily bought off.

And what was so wrong anyway with two men on a date?

They took their seats and tucked their napkins into their collars, passing shy smiles to each other. Immediately a waiter in a black tux was at their table with a pitcher of water and two tall glasses. Setting them before the two, he poured them to the brim and set the jug down, ice clinging against the sides. "I'll leave you gentlemen to decide your drinks and meals," he said stiffly and, with a quick bow, left their side.

Nick sipped his drink before opening his menu, and his eyes nearly bugged out at the prices. How could he possibly afford this? Gatsby chuckled suddenly. "Don't you worry, old sport. The bill is on me. You eat to your heart's content."

Nick frowned. "Gatsby, really—"

"Before you object, old sport, remember that I was the one to initiate this event." He began skimming through his menu. "It would only be right that I pay for it."

Nick couldn't argue with that, but it still made him feel uneasy. "I suppose..."

"Money is no object to me, old sport." He flashed a smile. Nick returned it eventually.

Only a few moments had passed when Gatsby folded his menu and placed it under his clasped hands. Nick looked up, surprised at this.

"You've decided already?"

"Ah, yes. I've been here before, and there's a favourite dish of mine..." He flicked his head at him, sitting up slightly to look at his menu. "Has anything caught your eye?"

"Everything looks delicious." He bit his lip, glancing over the selections. "I'm having a hard time deciding."

"Well, the capeletti is exquisite, and the baked cheese penne is divine as well." He paused, then snapped his fingers with a quick laugh. "Oh, and how could I forget the linguine with clam sauce! Truly a culinary delight!" When Nick made no immediate response, Gatsby barrelled ahead frantically. "And of course tortelli di zucca! I could check with the chefs and see what they personally recommend, or if you're not inclined to Italian at all tonight, we can go somewhere else—"

"Gatsby."

The man stopped. "Yes, old sport?" he asked, slicking a fallen strand of hair back.

"I'm having a good time." He offered a sincere smile. "It's okay."

"It's okay?"

He nodded.

Gatsby nodded slowly, casting his glance to the left and repeating the words in his head. It was fine. Nick was having a good time.

He could relax.

The evening went much smoother after that. Gatsby had chosen the baked cheese penne, and Nick, a simple linguine dish with Alfredo sauce. He found it to be a very enjoyable, and Gatsby watched his reactions with a fond smile. His calculations had been correct, then; Nick liked Italian food. His theory proven in reality, he was able to continue the date with much satisfaction.

Nick, however, while certainly not _not_ enjoying himself, felt a bit uneasy, a bit out of place in the setting. True, he had been to fancy dinners with his cousin at her home, waited on by hand and foot, but this was a secluded restaurant, cleared out solely for them, and one that came with a high price at that. That Gatsby had ensured Nick wouldn't have to pay irritated the latter somewhat. He knew it wasn't a burden to the man financially, but it was a thing of principle, and he had been denied his duty. Nick highly doubted that was his intention, but it irked him all the while, made him feel slightly inadequate.

"Nick?"

He snapped out of his thoughts, looking up at him. "Is everything alright, old sport?" Gatsby smiled nervously, jaw tensed. "You're staring at your dish as if those noodles have offended your family's honour. Is it not to your liking? If not, I can certainly have it exchanged for something more preferable—"

"It's fine," Nick interrupted, but one had to do with a man who could ramble like Gatsby. "Really, it's delicious."

"Ah..." This seemed to trouble the blond even more. A dish was something easily replaced, but if it were something else—something money and prestige couldn't buy—what was he to do?

Nick sighed, patting his mouth with his napkin. "Pardon my rudeness, Gatsby," he began. "I am having a wonderful time, and the food is incredible. I've never eaten so well in my life."

"I'm glad to hear that," he smiled. He clasped his hands together. "Then, is something else bothering you...?"

"I'll admit, I am feeling a bit... out of place here."

Gatsby blinked. "Out of place?"

"It's a bit too... extravagant for my tastes. Not that I don't appreciate it," he added hastily as the man's face fell. "I do, honestly; but I feel a bit uneasy with such fanciness."

Gatsby swallowed. "I see." His tone was imperceptibly strained. His plans—oh, his beautiful plans had been for nothing! He had studied Nick's tastes, but not his personality; his personality had been a given. He should have realized Nick wasn't a man for excess and flashy shows of wealth. God, he must have offended him, disgusted him deeply.

"Why don't we go to the beach after?"

The sudden proposal caught him off guard. He regarded him dumbfound. "The... beach?"

Nick smiled sheepishly. "Yes. Unless you have something else planned..."

"Well—not exactly." He had a row of events lined up for the evening, reserved it all just for the two of them. But if that would turn Nick off further... "But the _beach_, old sport?" His brow furrowed, desperation seeping into his tone. "A date should be romantic, sweeping, all-encompassing—it should be where the big money is spent. It should be filled to the brim with perfect, golden moments, should—should be—"

"That's a lot of 'should be's'," Nick said, smiling sadly. "And absolutely no 'wants'."

Gatsby stared.

"A date doesn't 'have' to be anything, Jay." His tone was softer, fonder, marked by the use of his first name. "A date is simply two people with an interest in each other spending time together doing something. That something doesn't have to be anything out-of-this-world; it could be hiking, or catching a film, or..." A quirk of a smile. "Going to the beach, watching the sunset, and bathing in the last warmth of the cooling sand. And these dates are imperfect, yes, often prone to awkward moments and clumsy accidents, but they are golden in our minds because we are there with the person we so adore."

"I—... but we should..." He was speechless.

Nick reached a hand forward to grasp his, gently holding. "Tell me, Gatsby," he said softly, "Not what you think you _should_ do, but what you _want_ to do."

He wanted to be with Nick. Nothing more, nothing less, in any form, on any dying day.

"I want to go," Gatsby smiled, squeezing his hand back, "To the beach with you."

Nick beamed. "Then let's go."


	4. Chapter 4

Hello, everyone! I'm so sorry for the wait! Been busy and lacking creativity, but I've got the chapter ready for you now. I'm sad to say that this is the final chapter of the story, but I will be writing more Great Gatsby fanfiction, so if you like what I've written so far, stay tuned! Thank you for all the kind reviews, and please review again! I'd like to know your thoughts on the end. I hope you've enjoyed my fic. :)

* * *

The brown sand was warm between their pasty toes, rich and radiant with a summer of soaked up sun. But summer was drawing to an end, the summer of the year and the summer of their day, and so the trembling sphere shook down into the horizon of the bay, raking its warmth back from the soft earth, soon to cool the grain beneath their feet. The days were growing shorter, the wind, cooler, and all could see Fall trudging up over the hill, here for her yearly stay.

Nick welcomed the frigid miss with open arms just as Gatsby opened his to his falling body.

"Nick—!" He caught him, feet digging into the sand, back curving to accommodate the extra weight. Clutching the man by his shoulders, he laughed nervously. "Easy there, old sport. The hospital is no way to end a fine evening."

Nick got to his feet, clearly embarrassed, but managed a smile. "I'd only tripped over a pebble," he stated, brushing off his dress shirt, grey overcoat cast aside with their shoes and socks farther back. "I hardly think I could injure myself so badly from that."

"It isn't wise to tempt fate, old sport," Gatsby said, eyes twinkling. "God is very creative in his methods of hurting us mortals."

"Mortal," Nick murmured as they continued their walk. The soft roll of the bay nipped at their feet. "I do not feel mortal tonight."

"Oh? And why's that, old sport?"

"Because I am here with you." His tone held the gravity of a marriage proposal, and his smile was ethereal in the dying light. "Because I am alive, and I am here with you, and that is enough for an eternity."

His words stole Gatsby's breath and he stared at the brunet before breaking into a wide grin. "You say the most most beautiful nonsense sometimes, old sport." And Nick laughed and pushed him in the water, and they splashed and fought and smiled under the dying sun for what felt like hours.

Eventually, they made it back to the beach, sand sticking to their pruny feet like chafing glue, and lied down, close enough for their arms to brush. They propped themselves up on their elbows and watched the day end.

"Old sport," Gatsby suddenly began. "I imagine you have some questions."

"I've a few."

"You are wondering why I am here with you and not at home, watching that green light and pining for your cousin."

"You're a mind reader, Mr. Gatsby."

That earned him a flick of sand in the face. Nick grinned. "I'm sorry. Go on."

"It's been... an eventful summer, old sport. What with you moving here, and..." He trailed off sheepishly. "Well, what with you moving here. My first real friend."

Nick's eyes widened. "Your first—"

"You heard correctly." He smiled warmly at him, and reached out a hand to caress his sand-speckled hair. If Nick had stolen his breath earlier, Gatsby had just taken it back; the gesture was so painfully tender, so hotly intimate that he found himself frozen to the spot, entranced by the lulling motions of his hand.

"You are something else, Nick, I must admit," he sighed, and his name on his tongue sent a foreign thrill through Nick's body. "I began thinking this a few weeks ago; but of course, I could never figure out what that something was. I am not succinct with my words as you are, old sport."

"Gatsby—"

"Let me finish." He tucked a loose strand behind Nick's ear, then lowered his hand to embrace the other's. His touch was soft, warm—good. "I could not sum you up in a few words as I could Daisy." He frowned pensively, fingers exploring the crevices between Nick's. "And this brought me great distress. She was perfect, and golden—a true beauty, soft and sculpted in every flawless way. She smelled of promise and youth, and I would follow that scent into the dark blue sea."

A seagull cried overhead. It was only them on the beach.

"But then," Gatsby continued, turning his gaze to Nick with a tenderhearted smile. "There was you."

"Me?"

"I couldn't put you into words. We would speak, and just when I thought I had an idea of what to call you, just as the answer skipped to my tongue, you would do something to completely contradict it. It confounded me, it infuriated me, but, above all, it entranced me. _You_ entranced me."

Nick blushed at such intimate words. "Jay, really—"

"I suddenly realized how horrible I had been to her."

Nick perked up at his soft, guilty tone. "Horrible?"

"Yes, old sport. I treated her as some object, as some—some reminder, glory of youth. She was put into the words I wanted so easily, and she became those words to me: golden, perfect, desirable. She was no longer a human being with wants and flaws and longings; now, she was just a pretty little key to unlock a pretty little hole."

He had never seen such a side to the man, secretly suspecting he possessed no such side. "And what was she to unlock?" he asked softly.

"That," he chuckled, "I am not sure of, old sport. But suffice to say, whatever it was, wouldn't have been enough. Nothing ever can be in the material world. And I was so enticed by you because I had not placed you in that world; I had—had allowed your personality to unfold on me, instead of I unfolding my desires onto you. You were a person to me. I let you be. I didn't let her be." He smiled sadly. "I hope she can forgive me for my selfishness."

Nick said nothing for a long time. What could he say? What could one say to such grandiose statements? For once, he was left without an original word to say, and so he picked two trite ones.

"I'm sorry."

Gatsby blinked, brow furrowing. "Sorry? Whatever for?"

"To me, the more I came to know you, the more you become a symbol of hope."

"Hope?"

"Yes, hope. That relentless pursual of the past gave me the impression of innocence, and by that extension, hope."

"I see." He paused. "And that is all I am to you?"

"No. You are so much more. And if I try to put it into words, I will make you a symbol for something else beyond you and lose you along the way. You, Jay Gatsby."

"You speak as if we are in a book, old sport!" Gatsby laughed.

"I am not the only one," he teased back.

"Well, at any rate—" He smiled at him warmly. "I forgive you."

"I'm glad."

The sun was gone, leaving scarlet waves along blue ones. "You're aware our relationship must be known by none, old sport."

"I understand."

"This doesn't bother you?"

He smiled sadly. "I've done this before; you are not the first man I've been with."

This brought a certain hesitance to Gatsby's usually confident eyes. "But—am I to be the last?"

"I'd like nothing more."

Gatsby grinned. "We ought to go, old sport. Before it gets too dark." He began to move, but Nick grabbed his wrist. At his inquisitive glance, he offered a beseeching gaze.

"Not yet." His voice trembled with emotion. "I don't want to go just yet. Let us stay on this beach forever."

Gatsby paused... then smiled. "Of course, old sport," he intoned tenderly. "Of course."

Nick rested his head back down on his chest, air passing cyclically in and out his lungs like the circles drawn upon his back by Gatsby's fingers. Red shuddered away, calming to a deep blue, blurring the line between the lake and the sky—an erased horizon. Nick wanted very much to take Gatsby's hand and walk out across that lake, so much like ice so still were her waters, and walk and walk and walk, endlessly, beyond the smudged out line between the lake and the sky, beyond all judgement; to run faster, to stretch his arms out further... And one fine morning—

But the water grew choppy as night fell, and Nick stayed on that beach with Gatsby for as long as he could.


End file.
